


i mingle with divinity

by mockturtletale



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sex Magic, sex luck, wizard reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:03:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockturtletale/pseuds/mockturtletale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Patrick says, putting his hand on Jonny’s thigh, feeling giving, “It’s totally us. You and me, we’re golden when our boners touch. It’s just what happens after that’s unnatural or whatever.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i mingle with divinity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bee's prompt 'you could be my luck' over on the home_ice friending meme / prompt post combo.
> 
> It's mostly sex luck rather than sex magic, so their actions aren't coerced at all, but the results of 'em do mean certain incentives.
> 
> Thanks to TJ for looking this over, and to Danielle for being the beta I've always wanted and the beta I deserve, because she's a total hardass but I can never disagree with what she says, even when I really really want to. A sample of my response to working with her: "Oh JESUS. Did I put their bodies in space the wrong way!?" ♥
> 
> No thanks at all to popfly, whose work on the archive today gave me considerable pause before posting this. Don't even fucking think about it, T.J. Oshie. Go terrorize some coaches or something instead.
> 
> Title from a RHCP song.

The first time it happened it was because they both snapped and fell into it. ‘It’ being Patrick’s bed. 

Ever since they met they’ve been one-upping and egging each other on, slowly becoming so competitive with one another that sometimes it’s worryingly easy to forget that they play for the same team, play for points in a league rather than the singularly satiating victory of beating one another. They live in some kind of shared, spread existence between both of their homes, text near constantly when they have to be apart. They don’t talk about their feelings, but that’s only because they don’t have to. One look can communicate far more than a thousand words, that’s how well they know one another. They touch each other all the time, hands and knees and feet and elbows making contact in a million different tiny ways each day, and it’s not a big deal, not anything worth the looks it sometimes garners from their teammates, but Patrick knows he couldn’t live without it, either. 

This year things have changed. 

They win the Cup together again, can say they’ve done that twice now, and nothing is enough anymore. 

Summer was spent apart and mostly quiet, but when they’d met up back in Chicago before the start of the season, Patrick had felt a new tension the moment Jonny had walked back into the locker room. He hadn’t known then if it was a good or a bad tension, and he still has no idea.

All he really knows is that the something pulling between them, the something that had been stretching and tightening and yanking so hard Patrick could barely walk under the strain of it some days; that something had to break. 

When it did, it shattered their resolve. 

They’d been in the middle of an argument that Patrick could not then nor now tell you the content of or reason for, and Jonny had been standing in Patrick’s hallway, yelling at Patrick where he stood in the kitchen, occupying his hands with the ingredients for a smoothie because he could barely think straight through the need to get them on Jonny instead. Jonny had said something that made Patrick so mad he felt like he could feel his blood vessels bursting in his body in violent protest, and the roar in his ears did nothing to dissuade him from this theory. His hands had shook as he’d wiped them on the towel on his counter and then stepped out from behind it, and he’d had no idea what he was going to do, only knew he needed to do something, but before he could find out what it was, Jonny was right there in his space, across the kitchen and putting his hands on Patrick’s chest like he could shock a response out of him with nothing but the touch of his palms to Patrick’s tshirt; a tendinous charge to his heart.

He’d been right. 

They’d tripped over one another, their clothes, the furniture and nothing at all in their haste to make it to Patrick’s bed, and what they’d done there had been the furthest thing from sex Patrick has ever experienced with his dick in someone’s mouth. 

Their bodies had seemed hungry for one another in a way that for the first time ever managed to match how desperate Patrick had felt for Jonny that afternoon, perfectly executed the sheer _necessity_ Jonny laid out with his words, the inevitable rightness of them together like this. 

It had been overwhelming in ways the Patrick, the self-crowned king of excess, couldn’t even begin to understand or process or contain, and they’d laid together afterward in quiet shock, solemn contemplation. 

Jonny had levered himself up onto one elbow to peer down at Patrick, and it hadn’t even been five minutes since Patrick had come for the third time, but just the simple act of watching Jonny look at him made Patrick lightheaded again, made his breath stutter in his chest and his whole body ache to have him again. 

“Are you … was that …” Jonny had tried to ask, but he got distracted by the slope of Patrick’s shoulder before he could finish the question. 

“Like finding god. And then beating him at hockey,” Patrick had answered anyway, unsure if Jonny even heard him until he’d felt him hum against his shoulder blade, send the sound into Patrick through the charge of his teeth. 

After that, things had gotten a little hazy. 

 

____

 

When they’d woken up the next morning (tangled in the sheets and one another, both pretty liberally covered in spunk, sore and exhausted in the best way) it had been possible to move away from one another and go their separate ways in a way it hadn’t seemed at all last night. They showered, they ate breakfast, and they’d headed out to skate the same way they do almost every day. The only difference being that they’d had some kind of life-affirming sex that came out of absolutely nowhere, now, and Patrick couldn’t stop thinking about the way Jonny’s back had bowed when Patrick got his dick inside him. 

They hadn’t talked about it, but they hadn’t pretended like it didn’t happen, either. When Jonny got red in the face and tight around the jaw watching Patrick work his way through some ice cream after lunch, Patrick had grimaced in sympathy and they’d both laughed. When Patrick’s eyes had glazed over watching Jonny towel off after his shower, Jonny had tossed his rolled up socks at him and then smiled in this mostly embarrassed but still exceptionally pleased sort of way. 

That night Jonny had scored a hat trick, and Patrick had had the worst game he’d had for as long back as he could remember, so that had done a lot to distract him from how he wanted Jonny all the time now, how he could say he’d _had_ him in the first place. 

That particular distraction had lasted all of a day and a half, until Jonny had invited Patrick over for lunch and then invited him to work his meal off in Jonny’s bed. 

The second time had been just like the first. Ethereal. Insanely fucking awesome. Like, so good Patrick _knew_ something was off about it, but didn’t have the time or energy to think too far into it because he’d really, really needed to concentrate on working his tongue into Jonny’s ass instead. 

That night Patrick scored two goals and had three assists, and Jonny’s skate blade had snapped clean off for no reason late in the third period, right before he hobbled off the ice to finish up with a -3 for his efforts that night. 

And that was when Patrick couldn’t ignore his suspicions any longer. 

 

____

 

“I’m telling you, it’s sex magic. Or like … sex luck, I guess. We’re getting lucky and then getting either luckier, or totally un-lucky. It’s obvious!” 

“Yeah, Kaner,” Jonny snorts, “That’s obviously what’s going on here. Why didn’t I think of that before? It’s so clear, now. Sex luck. Because that happens all the time.” 

“I’m serious, Jonny. I looked it up!” 

Jonny scoffs, smirking, and he’s a massive fucking asshole, so condescending sometimes that Patrick wants to punch him in the throat almost as much as he wants to stuff it shut with his cock instead. 

“And how exactly did you look that up, Patrick? Did you consult a spell book? Did you go ask your friendly neighbourhood coven? Did the answer come to you in a dream? Some kind of spirit quest, maybe?” 

“Fuck you. Just … fuck you a fucking lot. I looked it up on the internet, okay? It’s a thing. It’s absolutely a thing.” 

Jonny’s brow furrows, and Patrick’s pretty sure it’s because he’s trying to remember how the internet works and not because he’s concentrating on this video game. It’s one Jonny could kick Patrick’s ass at with his eyes closed. Patrick leaves him to it, completely happy to sit and enjoy the silence. 

Until Jonny breaks it with a cut off sound of something like outrage. 

“Patrick,” he says, so solemn it makes Patrick roll his eyes, “Patrick, please tell me this isn’t something you found on those Twilight boards. Please. I’m begging you.” 

Patrick wishes he was. He quirks an eyebrow at Jonny and chews on his lip, looks pointedly into Jonny’s lap before he remembers there’s a bigger issue at hand, here. Well. Not bigger, probably. Jonny’s dick is generous, and Patrick is suitably grateful. He just wants to know that they know what they’re getting into, here. He’s all for getting into it, anyway, but he wants to make sure they’re both read in on the small print. Namely the part that says they’re so good at fucking each other that they’re literally magic. 

“Now why would you jump straight to that conclusion,” Patrick stalls, and Jonny groans, tossing his controller aside mid-round and covering his face with his hands, speaking through them. 

“Because you only ever use the internet for porn, googling yourself, weirder porn, googling horrible pictures of me to taunt me with, and those fucked up fansites. I know google and pornhub didn’t lead you to sex magic. It’s not a real thing and you’re not into role play.” 

Patrick is kind of impressed, kind of offended. He does too like role play. Just not the kind with props. 

“Okay, it was a fansite. But they just had the idea, man, we’re the ones who are living it. Like think about it, really think about it. Pretend it’s something you care about, and then think about it again. We had sex, and then you scored a hat trick and I tanked. We had sex again, and I had a killer game and you totally blew it. Which is not even to mention how basically phenomenal this sex is. I’m definitely not able to do the things I do with you with other people. It’s never that good. Not even close. Unless that’s … is that a regular thing for you? Is it you?” 

Jonny takes his hands away from his face and slumps further down into the couch, frowning. 

“No,” he admits, “It’s never been like that with anyone else. But I thought it was just like -- us, you know?” He looks oddly disappointed that it might be something else instead, or maybe that Patrick questioned that in the first place. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, putting his hand on Jonny’s thigh, feeling giving, “It’s totally us. You and me, we’re golden when our boners touch. It’s just what happens after that’s unnatural or whatever.” 

Jonny looks mollified _and_ alarmed. His expressiveness has always been one of Patrick’s favourite things about him, and it’s an admiration that’s been renewed all over now that he knows what Jonny’s face looks like when he comes, when he’s on his knees with his mouth open and wet and begging, jerking off and waiting for Patrick to come on his face. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and Patrick is prepared for that, because Jonny always takes a lot of convincing. This time, Patrick doesn’t mind. 

“I know you don’t,” Patrick says, smiling beatifically. “Which is why we need to do an experiment that will prove it to you.” 

Jonny pales. 

 

____

 

Jonny is still pale the next morning, but he’s got bags under his eyes too and it’s because he was up all night fucking Patrick senseless. He made Patrick come so hard he literally went cross-eyed at one point, and Patrick smiles to himself every time it remembers why sitting down or standing up makes a twinge twist up his back. Jonny takes challenges very, very seriously and Patrick plans to take advantage of their combined flexibility exponentially. 

Two days later Jonny scores the most beautiful goal Patrick has ever seen, a goal so lovely and impossible it has to be a contradiction of physics. Patrick bags a nice enough assist, but Thornton seems hell bent on trying to fight him for the entire third period, and Patrick has to actually say “Uh, no. Thanks for asking and all, but really - no,” before he’ll stop insisting that Patrick drop the gloves. 

Patrick hustles Jonny back to their hotel room after the game and has Jonny’s belt half off before they’ve even put their bags down. 

“Quick, fuck me before you get me _killed_ ,” he says, and Jonny laughs, but does as he’s told, kisses Patrick still smiling, like he’d miss him if he weren’t around. 

 

____

 

Patrick manages to score in their next game. It’s a reeking, greasy garbage goal, and Jonny gets two and an assist, but still. A goal is a goal. 

 

____

 

“I think it’s like … settling down or even-ing out or something,” Patrick says the next time he’s naked in Jonny’s bed. Jonny has four fingers in him and his teeth sunk into the meat of Patrick’s ass and the sex is still phenomenal. 

“Whuh?” Jonny murmurs, reaching for Patrick’s dick with his free hand like he takes Patrick’s ability to speak still as some kind of defamation. 

“The magic,” Patrick pants, lifting his hips up for Jonny’s fist, dropping them back down to push against the slick press of his fingers.

“Yeah, sure,” Jonny replies, and Patrick doesn’t have time to think about whether he’s being contrary or is merely distracted before Jonny gets to his knees, plants a kiss on the head of Patrick’s cock and then reaches for the lube again, getting to the good part. The other good part, because every time they touch is the best thing that’s happened to Patrick so far today. 

Jonny fucks Patrick twice, and Patrick wrings four orgasms out of him in return, because the only place that’s safe from their competitive nature is nowhere, nowhere at all. By the time they collapse back into to pillows to grab a couple hours rest before they wake up and spend their off day doing this all over again, Jonny rolls over and touches Patrick’s face, drags his thumb against the grain of his stubble and tilts Patrick’s head to make him look at him. 

“It does seem to be -- more balanced, now. I guess. Why do you think that is?” 

Patrick closes his eyes and starts to drift off to sleep with Jonny’s hand caught between his cheek and the pillow. 

“I dunno. Guess we just have to keep it up,” he says, and he’s pretty sure Jonny will still be smiling when he wakes up in the morning. 

 

____

 

The downside to Patrick deciding they get to keep doing this is that Jonny has to test that, too. Because of course he does. 

They make it four days. 

In their second game since they last slept together, neither of them score. They play like such shit that Sharpy is commiserating, doesn’t mock them once. 

In the third game they each score once. 

“So it’ll wear off,” Jonny concludes over skype the next afternoon, because they haven’t been spending much time together this week and neither of them will ever admit that it’s because of their poor self control around one another, but they both know it. 

“Yeah. One bad game and then it’ll get back to normal, more or less,” Patrick says, trying as hard as he can to hide his disappointment. He can’t believe their sex magic is this fickle. He wants to be _abysmal_ when he and Jonny aren’t fucking, and he doesn’t know who he has become. 

“But we’re way, way better when we’re banging. And the luck splits evenly between us when we keep it frequent.” 

“That is true,” Patrick pretends to muse, cards close to his chest because he’s a master of diplomacy. 

Jonny looks at him, and Patrick looks back, keeping his expression carefully neutral. 

“Okay. Well I’m gonna go get dressed, we’ve gotta be back at United in like an hour.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick sighs, before he can help it. 

“You wanna come over and blow me with our suits on?” 

“Yes. Yes please,” Patrick says, not giving one fuck how desperate his relief must make him sound. 

“Cool, get your ass over here,” Jonny hangs up, and Patrick is knocking on his door ten minutes later with his shoelaces still untied. 

 

____  
____  
____


End file.
